IN JUBA, THE CIA STATION CHIEF had already set up a command post in a tugal, a tiny adobe house with a thatched roof. A parched plains wind buffeted the little hut, spinning up clouds of dust. The head of Sudanese intel was there, along with Abu Bakr and a contingent of the men he’d put through the training plan we’d developed earlier in the year. In addition, Ron Pontier, the missionary pilot, was there, having managed to escape his LFSS captors, and fly his six-seat STOL (short take off and landing) plane off the mountain.
Via HF radio, Ron was able to talk with the remaining hostages. But with AK-47s at their heads, the hostages were limited to reinforcing the terrorists’ demands. My main role was to help formulate a rescue plan and provide intelligence. In the tugal, I attached a crude fax machine to my satellite radio and began to receive reports that Captain Rick Zahner and his analysts transmitted from Bragg.
From the map provided by the deep-cover spook, I knew there were two airstrips, one atop Boma at the ACROSS compound and another at the base of the mountain, where the German wildlife project operated. Using satellite imagery, Bragg confirmed that and also delivered a valuable update: The terrorists, apparently amateurs, hadn’t thought to block either one.
Satellite photos also showed a couple of ad hoc LFSS fighting positions that included two terrorists keeping watch from the roof of an adobe building at the missionary compound. In addition to imagery, Bragg supplied us with a detailed weather forecast. Meanwhile, Ron provided detailed information on the terrorists themselves.
“I counted at least fifteen of them, but I think there may be more,” he said. “They’re armed with AK-47s. They seemed high or drunk or something. I don’t think they would think twice about killing any or all of the hostages.”
Combined with the reports from Bragg, these details enabled the Sudanese to create an assault plan. Far from any significant body of water, Abu Bakr had only two options for insertion: overland or by air, and the land route was so risky it didn’t even count. The hostage rescue team would have to climb a six-thousand-foot plateau, and it would only take one terrorist sentry to spot them and, effectively, end the mission. Abu Bakr and his officers decided they would be more likely to preserve the element of surprise if they went in fast by air.
A small band of fighters would land a Buffalo plane at the wildlife project at the base of Boma, then take and hold that facility. Simultaneously, a force of about forty fighters armed with G-3 automatic rifles would land four Puma helicopters and a Huey at the ACROSS compound and launch a direct assault on the terrorists. It was a risky plan in terms of the hostages’ lives. But we calculated that the terrorists would choose to engage the assaulters and save their own skins rather than waste time shooting missionaries.
Weather was a problem. Winds atop the Boma Hills were notoriously treacherous. Using my sat radio, I contacted Bragg for another forecast and gave it to Abu Bakr. Looking it over, he chose the best weather window for the strike: twenty-four hours away, just after first light.
Delta was there strictly for support. But I wanted to go along to see how Abu Bakr’s men performed, and to help if they needed it. A Sudanese general whose name I don’t remember okayed it.
“You may go with us,” he said. Then he delivered some of the best news I’d ever heard in my life: “But there is no room on our helicopters.”
Thank God.
After my trip down the Nile, I’d seen enough of Sudanese helos. I talked to Ron Pontier and he agreed to fly a small four-seat missionary bush plane to Boma with Don Feaney and me on board.
H-Hour came and the Sudanese launched. An hour later, Ron guided our tiny plane toward the ACROSS compound. As we approached the Boma Plateau, I could see the Sudanese helicopters flying around in irregular patterns. Then I saw our runway, just a dirt strip hacked into the jungle with machetes. Swallowing hard, I cinched my seatbelt a little tighter.
After a light touchdown and bumpy rollout, Ron brought the bush plane to a quick stop. Don and I jumped out, .45s drawn, and scrambled to find the missionaries. In the search, we saw a Sudanese soldier lying dead near the airstrip. We later learned he was the first rescuer to charge into battle and was killed as soon as he jumped off the aircraft. But he was the only Sudanese casualty and LFSS resistance crumbled fast. The Sudanese cut down at least twenty terrorists and the others escaped into the evergreens.
As we moved around the missionary station, Don and I heard from below a burst of rapid fire from an assault rifle followed by a grenade explosion. A Sudanese element was still chasing the rebels down the mountain.
Abu Bakr’s voice crackled over my radio. “The hostages are all alive.”
But we couldn’t find them. Don and I moved with caution, entering each tugal prepared to clear it.
Then Abu Bakr radioed us again. “The missionaries have been moved to the wildlife center airstrip. They are on their way to Juba.”
Later that day, back in Juba, I finally met John Haspels, who told me he and the other missionaries had tried to escape their captors on their own. The mission, it turned out, had a little dispensary stocked with medications, including narcotics used to treat pain. In something like a scene out of a movie, Haspels made tea for the terrorists and laced it with drugs. The terrorists drank it, promptly fell asleep, and the missionaries fled into the forest. But after waking from their nap, the kidnappers hunted them down, and beat them with rawhide whips.
The day after the rescue, the U.S. embassy sent a C-12, a small turboprop, down to collect Don and me. As we arrived at the airfield, John and the other missionaries drove up in an old Land Rover. The entire group got out and walked over to us as we stood on the tarmac in front of the plane, props already turning.
“We don’t know how to thank you . . . ,” John began, shouting over the prop noise. I glanced around at the group and saw tears. “We have nothing to give you in return.”
“You don’t have to give us anything—” I started to say, but John went on.
“The only thing we have to give you is this,” and he handed me a Good News Bible. All the missionaries had signed it.
Now I had tears of my own. “I want you to know that I’m a believer, and I prayed for your rescue,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” John Haspels said. “Thank you both.”